


won't you try to take care of yourself?

by hikaru



Category: RPF - Wainwright family
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Musicians, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:ediblestars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/pseuds/hikaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martha always thinks that she's right because she's younger and couldn't possibly have killed as many brain cells as Rufus had.  Rufus always thinks that he's right because he's Rufus fucking Wainwright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	won't you try to take care of yourself?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ediblestars](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ediblestars).



> This prompt wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. I hope you enjoy it, from one Wainwright fan to another. Vignettes in the fic are plucked from random bits of Wainwright trivia rattling about in my head, though many are purely made up (though I can sure see them happening). The title and section headers come from lyrics by Rufus, Martha, and Loudon Wainwright (III).  
> Thanks and much love to Reg, who shares the love and encourages the Rufus muse more than she probably should.

  
**life is a game and true love is a trophy**   


They're competing with each other before they're even old enough to know that they've turned their lives into a competition. Who can run the fastest? Who can sneak the most cookies off of the tray before mum notices? Who gets more toys at Christmas? Whose singing impresses Gaby more? Who does dad like more? (Martha usually wins that competition.)

Everyone encourages their competitive natures, contrary to what happens in normal families. Rufus gravitates towards theatrics and the piano; Martha towards boldness and the guitar. They're the same but different, two sides of the same coin. When they're old enough to realize the race that they've made of their lives, they're too set in their ways to stop.

  
**prettiest girl in the whole damn world**   


When Kate and Loudon bring a newborn Martha home from the hospital, Rufus asks if they can take her back, return her for a puppy or something. Everyone laughs, but he's as offended as an almost-three-year-old can be. Everyone is paying attention to this wriggly pink _new_ thing, and not him. That, clearly, is not the way the world is supposed to work.

  
**sing the songs about the boys that you could've but not quite**   


He's thirteen when Martha catches him staring after a boy who walks past. She doesn't really understand that this is _different_ from the way most of the rest of the world operates. She just recognizes that Rufus has the same look on his face that the older boys get whenever they see a pretty girl walk past. Martha wants to tease him for it, but she stops when he catches her eye. She understands that the red flush that creeps into his cheeks and the way he immediately casts his gaze down to the floor means that she should pretend she never saw anything.

  
**i really do fear that i'm dying**   


Martha is sick of hearing Verdi blasting through the speakers of the the record player in Rufus' room. She has heard the _Requiem_ so many times that she thinks she's got it memorized, and she hates opera.

She knocks on the door, trying to get him to turn it off or turn it down or just talk to her like a normal human being. He doesn't answer. He never does. He just sits in there in the dark, curled up onto the bed, lips moving soundlessly along with the timeless Latin. _Preces meae non sunt digne, sed tu, bonus, fac benigne, ne perenni cremer igne._

"Rufus," Martha calls, trying not to be impatient. "I'm tired of this. Can't you get stuck on listening to something else?"

A rustle comes from the bedroom, and she thinks that he might be coming out to actually speak to her. She never sees him, and she may just be a kid, but she knows that being shut up in there for so long can't possibly be good for him.

Instead, the music gets louder.

 _Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem._

  
**i know the reasons why we were unkind**   


She sends him an advance of her first EP, before it's supposed to ship out to little stores and nooks and crannies for people who have never heard of her to decide to give the album a try. He's her brother, she respects his opinion. Part of her, the little girl still clamoring for approval in a family overflowing with talent, just wants him to be proud.

"Well," he says slowly, and she can hear him on the other end of the phone, rapping his fingers against the table, just another nervous tic brought on by his constant need to be in motion. "It's good." He doesn't elaborate, and he sure as hell doesn't sound very enthusiastic.

"And...?"

He pauses, and she hears muffled voices in the background. She doesn't even want to _know_ what's going on there. "It's ... a little quaint, you know? A little too _oh, look at me, I'm a misunderstood girl_ , shit like that, you know? It's just not very sophisticated, that's all."

"Not very... it's..." She's having a hard time not wanting to reach through the phone to punch Rufus in the face. "Like you're so much better? With all your bullshit about wanting to be in love, when you spend your time pining over fucking heroin addicts?"

"Who's the one with a _real_ record deal here?" he responds, and she hears his friends laughing in the background.

"You know what, fuck you, Rufus," she spits out, fingers gripping tight around the phone. "Just. Fuck you."

  
**ain't it big enough for us both in this town?**   


"Martha's got her own fucking career now," he says all the time while introducing her in concert. It was cute the first time, but after being on the road together for months and months, it's getting a little old.

She pushes her way backstage to find her brother, shoving past fawning boys and kids who look more than a little strung out and the usual smattering of old people who are there only because they know that the performers are Kate and Loudon's kids. "Could you maybe be a little more genuine tomorrow night?" Martha asks.

Rufus looks up from the chair he's sprawled out in. A cigarette dangles lazily between his lips, and he looks terribly bored. "Huh?"

"'Martha's got her own fucking career now, folks,'" she says, voice swinging up into a pitch-perfect imitation of her brother's. "Seriously, can you at least pretend to not be a big bitter queen over the fact that I'm doing this, too?"

"I think I'm being _perfectly_ genuine." He rolls his eyes and slumps further down into the chair. Rufus flicks ash carelessly from his cigarette, letting it fall to the floor since he hasn't bothered to reach for the ashtray. "You've got your own career. It's great, you're fabulous, and I get an opening act that comes cheap."

The look that crosses Martha's face says that he clearly picked the wrong response. "That is _not_ being genuine," she snaps. " _That_ is called being a bitch."

"Look," he says, sitting up and pushing one hand through his hair, limp strands flopping back, then sliding right back into his eyes when he pulls his hand away. "Look, all because I'm not being all touchy-feely about it--"

"I'm not looking for touchy-feely, Rufus, I'd just _like_ you to acknowledge--"

"You _are_ looking for touchy-feely, and you're never going to make it if that's what you're looking for." He speaks like he's seen the whole world already, like he's so wise, but he forgets sometimes that he's only twenty-five. Rufus leans forward, grinding his cigarette out in an already-full ashtray, then pulls out another one to light up.

"I am _not_ \--"

"Yes," he interjects, cutting her off, "yes, you are."

"You have no _idea_ what you're talking about," Martha says, reaching forward to snatch the new cigarette from between Rufus' fingers, taking a long drag from it as she turns and stalks from the room.

  
**with booze and smoke from cigarettes and dope**   


She calls him while she's drunk in a bar in Dublin or Belfast or god knows where. Calling seemed like a good idea at the time. She's tired of being out on the road, she's tired of being single, she's tired of guys ogling her and trying to grab at her when she's out, she's tired of things being so goddamn hard all of the time. She debates - mostly with herself - whether or not this business and all the shit that goes along with it is even worth it.

There are no answers to her questions, none that he knows, at least, so he doesn't provide any. Instead, he just listens.

  
**the boys that made me lose the blues and then my eyesight**   


He calls her while he's high on god knows what. Calling seemed like a good idea at the time. She stopped asking what he was on once he moved on past pot and ecstasy. She didn't want to know anymore. He isn't making much sense, rambling about all these grand ideas, about how he understands the entire universe if only anyone would ever love him. The boys in New York are cruel, they're cruel and they're all junkies and strippers and, oh, god, he loves New York and the junkies and the strippers, only except that none of them love him.

She can't respond. She thinks if she tries to talk him down, that he'll just hang up anyway. Her heart breaks as she realizes she can't fix him, no matter how badly she wants to. So instead, she just listens.

  
**i will opt for the big white limo, vanity fairgrounds, and rebel angels**   


She's offended for about five minutes when she finds out that Rufus called fucking Elton John before he called her when he made the decision to go into rehab.

"Martha," he says during his one afternoon phone call at the center, his free period between group therapy and some bullshit twelve-step group meeting. He sounds like shit, but she isn't surprised. "Martha, did _you_ know the right people who could pull the strings to get me here so fast?" Rufus sounds exasperated, too, and a little edgy. She wonders if they've made him quit smoking, too, wiping away all of his vices. He must be completely miserable.

"No," she responds, trying not to sound put out, but she does anyway. "I just wish you would have told me sooner."

"I know," he says. "It was kind of a crisis."

"I know," she responds. "Just... don't forget we're here for you, too."

  
**won't you walk me through it all, darling?**   


"I think I found him."

Martha presses her hand to her face. Of course Rufus would call in the middle of the night and start rambling nonsense. "Who? What? You found who?"

" _Him_ ," he says, as if the added emphasis makes all the difference. "I think I'm in l--" He stops, though, like he isn't sure if he wants the rest of that sentence to be hanging out there in the open. "I could be really happy with this guy."

"Rufus," Martha says flatly, slumping back in her chair and shifting her phone to her other ear. "Rufus, you say that about every guy you sleep with. You said that about the painter you fucked in London last month."

"We haven't even fucked yet!" He speaks as if this is some sort of novelty, a rare occurrence.

"About every guy you get on your knees for, then. Christ, Rufus, don't you ever learn?" She thinks that being clean should have made him less prone to being an idiot, but she apparently thought wrong.

"No, we haven't even - there hasn't even been _groping_ , Martha, that's the thing. It's just--we're going on dinners and walks in the park and he likes the opera and he's, like, eight feet tall--"

"You sound like a teenage girl," she teases, kicking her feet up on the table in front of her. "Please tell me you're not dating... seeing... _whatever_ ing this guy just because he's tall, because let me tell you, Rufus, that's almost _always_ a disappointment."

"I'm being serious, Martha," he says petulantly.

"So am I," she insists. "Look, just... don't be stupid, okay?"

"I _know_. If I wanted a lecture, I would've called Kate."

"Then next time, call one of your not-boyfriends. Someone's got to lecture you, babe. That's what family's for."

"Great, thanks." Martha can practically _hear_ him rolling his eyes.

"Good night, Rufus."

"Good night, Martha."

  
**they say that you are no one at all without the people who know and love you around**   


They still bicker about everything, which isn't surprising. They're both headstrong, competitive... a little bit bitchy. While they used to bicker over dinner or drinks, or over the mixing board in the recording studio, life is far too busy now, so these days, they mostly bicker over the phone, through song and witty banter, and through interviews that are sure to be taken out of context by someone, somewhere.

Of course, Martha always thinks that she's right because she's younger and couldn't _possibly_ have killed as many brain cells as Rufus had, not even during those crazy years where she was still trying to find herself.

Rufus always thinks that he's right, because he's Rufus fucking Wainwright. How could he ever be wrong?

  
**you had the grace of princess grace, the american monarch**   


She's running around backstage at Carnegie Hall, managing to look cool and competent even while wrangling dozens of Wainwrights and friends, none of whom can ever do anything in an orderly fashion. What's more amazing is that people actually _listen_ to her. All of these insane, bullheaded people are doing everything that she asks of them.

And she does it all in heels. Jesus Christ.

"Rufus," Martha says, snapping her fingers at him to get his attention. "You and Jorn needed to be on the other side of the stage, like, five minutes ago."

"We've got plenty of--"

" _Five minutes ago._ "

"It doesn't _really_ matter what side of the stage--"

"Rufus. Go."

He sighs, pausing to catch his reflection in one of the many shiny surfaces hanging around backstage. Rufus purses his lips and adjusts his hat to give it a bit more of a jaunty angle above his eyes, then fusses with his coat.  
"Stop being a diva," she says, grabbing his arm and dragging him away. "Find your boyfriend, find your music, and get your ass over _that_ way."

"Yes, captain," Rufus says, shaking free of her grasp. He leans in to press a kiss to her cheek, mostly just to piss her off.

" _Go,_ Rufus, god." She stalks off to go wrangle more Wainwrights into place, trusting that Rufus will - eventually, somehow - wind up where he's supposed to be.

She's absolutely perfect, he thinks as she walks away. A towering blonde earthy goddess, and _everyone_ will listen to her, because she's so naturally commanding. He wonders sometimes if she's _actually_ a Wainwright. She's far too competent to be one of them.

Maybe, he thinks, people listen to her simply because she's really scary when you cross her.

  
**so complain, have no shame, and remember that your brother is a boy**   


They're too old for this and they both know it, but it doesn't stop them. Jorn is upstate, trying to convince rich old people to give more money to avant garde New York artists. Brad is stuck in Nashville, playing bass for an album that he didn't even want to work on in the first place. So it's just like the old days, when Rufus and Martha would beg Kate to let them stay home alone rather than being dragged off to some musty concert hall full of old people who spoke French and liked accordions.

The furniture is all pushed to one side in Rufus' living room, and the two of them are sprawled out on the carpet, a bowl of popcorn on the floor. The time is three o'clock in the morning, and Rufus and Martha are throwing popcorn at the television, trying to see who can hit the image of Billy Mays in between the eyes the most times.

Several pieces of popcorn bounce off of the screen, but only one is right on target.

"That's eight for me," Rufus crows, reaching over Martha to grab another handful of popcorn.

"No, fuck you, Rufus, that was _my_ piece. Yours hit him in the ear." She swats at his hand, trying to keep him from the popcorn.

"Liar!" He barely holds back a childish laugh. "You're just trying to make up points so you win."

"Loser sleeps in the bathtub? Fuck yes, I'm trying to win." Martha slaps at his hand again; he's tried to sneak behind her for the bowl, but Rufus was never very good at being sneaky.

"Don't just clean! _Oxyclean_!" Billy Mays shouts from the television. Martha flings a handful of popcorn at the screen.

"That's got to be at _least_ five points," Martha points out as the pieces of popcorn bounce off of the mantle of the fireplace to fall to the floor.

"That's got to be _cheating_ , and you're hogging the bowl." Rufus lunges for the popcorn, but all he's successful at is knocking the bowl out of Martha's hand, scattering popcorn everywhere, and inadvertently tackling his sister to the floor. They both dissolve into giggles, and for just a moment, they both feel like kids again rather than thirty-somethings who have seen far, _far_ too much of life.

"I still won," Rufus says once he's managed to stop laughing and catch his breath. His head is resting against Martha's stomach, and he almost looks boyish and peaceful there, sprawled out against her.

"You did _not_." Martha runs her fingers through his unruly hair, trying to smooth it back into place but only making it worse.

"Did so," Rufus insists, lifting his head just a bit to look up at her. "It's my house, I automatically win."

"I am _not_ sleeping in the bathtub just because you decided to change the rules, you ass." She hits him lightly on the shoulder, but the laughter in her voice gives away the fact that she finds this utterly hilarious.

"Well," he drawls, trying to look thoughtful and serious. "I guess you can have the couch if you clean up the popcorn."

She stretches to the side to scoop up a handful of popcorn, flinging them vaguely in Rufus' direction. "Bitch," she says through laughter.

"Yeah, well." Rufus picks up a piece of popcorn that's fallen onto his chest and pops it into his mouth. "You love me anyway."

  



End file.
